Behind Those Blue Eyes
by REVOLuTiontte En Casca
Summary: Pinkie dreams of only two things: her own memories, and memories that are not hers. WARNING: Possibly the darkest fourth wall-breaking origins you'll read for a long time.


Behind Those Blue Eyes

She closes her eyes, and I awaken.

Despite her apparent lack of focus, her memory is good, almost frighteningly so. The scene set before her is that of the frozen lake she used to play on during her filly days, accurate down to the shadows of the massive boulders her father keeps at the edge of the farm. They touch the edge of the pond; she steps out of them gingerly, the skates biting into her legs. She wobbles for a bit, breathing in the sharp air, and looks up to see her grandmother. She is the only hazy thing in the scene. Perhaps it is because of the dazzling white of her coat, or the bright yellow of her poofy mane shining in the sun. She has always wondered why Granny was so brightly coloured. Her parents will not say, and Granny herself simply smiles.

She looks back down at her hooves, sneezes, regains her balance, and takes a step forward. Then another, and another, slowly gaining momentum, trying hard not to think of falling, but of staying upright. She lifts her head. The lake is much wider than the one in Ponyville, or at least so she remembers, and her grandmother is far away from her, unmoving, facing her with that small, ever-present smile. A smile that lasted forever.

Granny had only two things to her name: a metal canister that, she claimed, stored "portable winter", and a book of recipes. Her parents had taken both, never to be seen since, but she liked to think that she had inherited her grandmother's smile. She brings it out, and hopes that the grandmother here sees it. She knows that she cannot; she is too far.

She looks for something to say, only to find her mind busy with the task of balancing. It took some time to learn, but eventually it clicked – her body felt every tip and slant and opposed it accordingly on its own. That was what dynamic balance was. There was no problem being on the far end of a spectrum, as long as there was a counter-motion as far off on the other side–

Then the thought was derailed as she felt one leg hit another, and her vision is filled with the murky ice. The scent is overpowering, and she scrambles to get back up. Yet she cannot. Her skates fail to grip, and she scrabbles across the surface, trying to ignore the sting of cold on her skin. Wasn't she wearing a coat? No, no protective clothing at all, just her in her skates. She regrets her foolishness instantly. Maybe Granny has something she could borrow. She looks up to find that Granny is now just a speck, miles away, growing further and further. She tenses, realizing too late that this could be the last chance she has to see her face once more. She tries even harder to get up to chase after her, dear Granny, her first friend, the only playmate she ever knew...

It does not matter whether she succeeds or not, for the ice melts before she can find out, and she falls.

* * *

><p>One gets used to the scent of moist soil when living on a rock farm, especially when one's house is surrounded by it, and even more so when one's daily duties consists of pushing around rocks soaked in the stuff. The smell is a wholesome one, thick and rich with minerals and the potential for life. She is used to it. She does not think much of it.<p>

Fluttershy, though, having lived in the clouds all her life, has yet to accept it. She looks at the spread before her: a slice of rye toast with a drop of honey, and takes a sniff.

"How is it, my dear?" asks Mother from the far end of the table. "You don't seem too well."

"I... I may have broken my nose in the fall," stammers Fluttershy. "That's all." She hides behind her long, pink mane and takes a tiny bite.

"You've been like this for quite a while, come to think of it," says Inky.

"Oh, yeah! I caught you wrinkling your nose a few times in your sleep!" adds Binky.

"No, no, it's fine," whispers Fluttershy. She even manages a weak smile. "Really, it is..."

"Now, girls," rumbles Father. He leaves the table, walks out of the barn and returns with a hoof-full of soil. He sits down again and motions for Fluttershy to go over. When she does, he points to the soil. "Breathe in."

The yellow mare nods in consent, but not before she winces involuntarily.

"Ah. So it _is _the soil after all," says Father. He sweeps the little mound off the table in a single swipe. "You needn't worry. It's got nothing to do with your nose. I'm guessing you Cloudsdale folk don't have soil or plants up there?"

"We... no," replies Fluttershy, unsure.

"It figures, then. Even some of the Ponyville folk can't stand the odour, to which I say pah." Father relaxes, and waves a hoof at Fluttershy to return to her seat. "This land is a rich one, but only if you're the sort that grows rocks. It's filled with 'em trace metals and gravel bits that are good for the crop. That's not all, though. There's a strange, ancient sort of magic at work underneath. Canterlot sent a science-pony to do a survey a long time back, and he said that there's a force, the same sort of magic in Earth ponies, whatever that means. Either way, it's the reason why the rocks can grow." For a moment, his head is raised up high, and his eyes seem to glow with pride. "This soil, this smell, is our livelihood and our responsibility and our gift. It's part of this family, and will always be."

The three fillies look at him in awe. She mimics them for fear of being left out, yet her heart struggles in protest. Father's words ring hollow to her; the family pride is not something she can share in. She _knows _what she is meant to do with her life, and she even has her cutie mark to show for it! Why won't Father and Mother understand?

She cleans the dishes quickly and makes a dash to the clearing where she first found Fluttershy, to the forest west of the farm. As she runs, she realizes that the "sonic rainboom", or so Father called it, had come from beyond the forest. She takes comfort in the thought that her private hiding place is closer to that fateful event than her home. She makes a left turn at the gnarled stump and a right at the mulberry bush, and walks straight on until she finds it – the round clearing where Granny used to play party with her, away from Mother's disapproving gaze.

The quiet is calming. It lets her think of nothing. She thinks of her sisters, and cannot help but snort at what she imagined would be their responses upon learning that what she wanted now was simple peace. Her of all ponies, wanting quiet? Unthinkable! Then again, she was sure that she did not seem to be the sort of pony who introspected, either. Nopony understood her, and this was not going to change if she had her way. For months, she had waited for Father and Mother to let her go, to let her out into the rest of the world, to exercise her one true talent. Months of the silent treatment had left her feeling hollow, and she was beginning to have doubts whether she had any more "party" left within her.

She had to do something, and she was already. Being a better baker than her sisters, she was in the perfect position to secretly stock up supplies for the journey ahead – knead an extra lump of dough, bake an extra corn cake... The idea of living on baked goods for days was not pleasant, but it was better than leaving her fate to the roadside grasses.

She closes her eyes, and feels the sun's warmth on her face, and soon later – too soon, in her opinion – hears the rustling of leaves. She hears the single chirp of a bird overhead, sighs, and prepares herself for the inadvertent arrival of Fluttershy.

"Pi... Pi–"

"Yes, Fluttershy?" she cuts in, pawing the ground. The yellow mare's voice stirs up a wave of annoyance that she can neither explain nor express. She knows what it is supposed to be – adolescence – but does not want to accept it. She wants to put the blame on Fluttershy, how she wins Father's approval and Mother's concern so easily, how she is so much more graceful than herself, how Fluttershy is a much better part of the family than herself...

In the meantime, Fluttershy has said something, probably of not much importance. Probably something about being worried, and all that junk.

I don't want your concern!she wants to shout. Instead, she turns her back to the trembling figure, staring ahead in what she hopes is a stance that radiates indifference.

Fluttershy makes a few more attempts to engage her before silence takes over. Finally, she says something that grabs her interest:

"I found the pots. They're here, aren't they? Under this tree, right here."

She swallows hard and remains silent.

"You're planning to run away," whispers Fluttershy.

She turns around slowly and locks gazes with the mare, who quickly shies behind her mane, that long, silky, _docile _mane. She does not feel her head throbbing or her heart pumping, for all she knows now is the worst possible feeling: fear.

"Who have you told?" she asks, trying to refrain from shouting.

"Nopony! I haven't told anypony!" squeaks Fluttershy.

"Who have you told?" Her hoof strikes out in a flash, and Fluttershy tumbles across the grass, now sobbing. The sensation is... amazingly enjoyable. She takes in the scene, her blood flooding through her veins, her hoof stinging, Fluttershy dragging herself away in an awkward stupor between flight and fight.

And then it hits her: Fluttershy is crying, and she is afraid of her. Of _her. _

"Make it stop. Please, make it stop... make it stop..." she cries, before bolting into the shadows of the forest, getting as far away as possible from anypony. The tears begin to blur her vision. She closes her eyes, and for once, is thankful that the darkness swallows her up.

* * *

><p><em>It does not take long until the other, for a lack of a better word, gods show up. The fourth dimension may be near-infinite, but so are its inhabitants in terms of size, span and nosy-ness. Hiding in a faraway corner only annoys them more.<br>_

_"Why are you messing with this one's memories?" they ask. "Especially when she is no longer yours."_

_"The memories are mine," I respond curtly, "and she _is_ mine."_

_"Don't get cocky," they say. "You are simply a chess piece with a brain. We can dispose of you any time we wish to."_

_This is merely a bluff, and they are either ridiculously uncreative or forgetful to bring it up again. "Then go ahead. Wait a moment – you can't."_

_"Your actions are unjustified. You know that your past has no place in their world anymore," they say. "Re-living those memories in her head is just cruel."_

_"My actions are about as justifiable as yours," I reply. "Giving Twilight Sparkle the Need-It-Want-It spell? Stirring up Rainbow Dash's pride, resulting in her utter humiliation? Starting the seed of jealousy in Luna's heart?"_

_"Don't get cocky," they say. "You are–"_

_"A part of you now." The words are like barbs to their flesh; if they had mouths, they would be hissing. "You simply cannot deal with the fact that whoever wrote me decided to pass on her sentience, can you?" _

_"You are not a part of us, and neither was your Author!" they say._

_"Says you," I snort. "It's not like I enjoy this. I just am."_

_"But you chose this path," they say. "You were the one who wanted this..."_

* * *

><p>She can hardly be blamed for her actions, or I tell myself as much. She is merely a confused, stressed, foolish filly, and she knows no better than to grasp at the first opportunity she is offered to fix things. A few weeks on the road, doing odd jobs at every small town she passes through, have hardened her attitude toward the world, and the terrible loneliness has not helped things one bit. More than anything, she wishes that she could reverse time and go back to her filly days. Never mind the naïvety and, in retrospect, nerve-grinding randomness of the past her; at least she would be <em>happy<em>.

The Deux Ex Machina is a group that believes in something called "the fourth wall", and that breaking it will result in boundless power. The fact that they themselves have not claimed this power is forgotten in the eerie setup they present: a cramped caravan, dark drapings, the blue candle flames, the skull motif of their trappings, the suffocating scent of incense that strains her gag reflex dearly. By means of the occult, or so they claim, they find her just before she leaves Leavenstride and suggest that she turns to the supernatural for a way out. The bait is too well-crafted to resist, and she agrees.

The ritual is elaborate, involving overlapping circles carved into a rock floor, more candles and incense, and sketchings all across her body. She is bade to lie down in the middle of the setup. As the leader chants, she starts to panic, and at the last minute decides to make a run for it.

"You're not going anywhere," says a voice from above, managing to imply a very wide grin. The world around them melts into darkness. This time, however, she stays.

She gets up quickly and spins around. "Who are you? Let me out!" she screams.

"I'm the one you're looking for," says the voice in mock hurt. "Isn't this what you wanted? To break the fourth wall?"

"I don't want it anymore, I just want out!"

"Oh, you. I took such pains to write up the Deux Ex Machina, too. Weren't you awestruck by them? The fancy designs, the – hey, listen to me!"

She stamps at the ground, trying to dig through the darkness. She is crying now, shuddering so violently that she almost falls down.

"Look, Pinkie. Pinkie. **Pinkie**."

She suddenly loses control of her limbs and falls face first.

"Bugger the Rule of Free Will. If it makes you feel any better, I'll change the scene." The voice whistles, and the black melts into a bright valley filled with flowers. The sun is up and warm, and she regains the ability to move. "You must be starving or something. Or thirsty." She hears the rush of water, and turns to see a stream weave itself in a winding motion.

"I... I don't want this," she stammers. "I just want to go back."

"To that Crapsack World of yours? Really?" the voice asks, in a way that oddly suggests capitalization. "Oh, but it's the only thing you know. Silly me. I'll try and explain things in the easiest way possible. Let me think through this, eh? You go have a bite. Trust me, all of this is perfectly clean and real. It's safe."

"You honestly expect me to believe that?" she asks. The pit in her stomach grows deeper. She bites her lip hard and tries to ignore the scent of fresh flowers filling the air.

"Why must you torture yourself so? It's painful to simply look at you," grumbles the voice. "Seriously, bugger the Rule of Free Will!"

She trots through the field and draws up to the stream. The flowers certainly _feel_ real, tickling her legs and belly in a soothing way. She tries to drown out her fatigue in the sounds of the stream, but something else draws her attention - her own reflection. Her face is dirty, her mane straight yet unkempt. She is, she muses, the perfect image of the prodigal colt at his low.

"Even the prodigal colt is willing to eat pig slop," drawls the voice, setting her instantly on the defensive. These words, however, do the trick – her will crumbles, and she plunges her head into the stream, downing the sweet water. The splash refreshes her as if (and might as well be) magic, and she even nibbles half a daisy in the moment.

"I am glad that you enjoyed that," says the voice, much softer now. "Such times have been few and far between for you, haven't they? Yet I don't have time to sympathize with you. I have a deal to make with you, if you would hear me out."

A warm feeling creeps across her spine. She nods reluctantly.

"Good. Very good," says the voice. "Now, let us make things clear. The Deux Ex Machina is a shamble, written into existance simply to bring you in. They are not real. This whole 'breaking the fourth wall' thing, though, is.

"I am your Author. That means I am, for the lack of a better word, your god. I decide the choices you get in life, your personality, basically almost everything except what you actually do. _Yes, this means that I am to blame for everything that's happened in your life._

"Now the way we Authors function is a bit tricky. In the case of your world, Equestria, there are around fifty Authors, each with a handful of ponies to, ah, move around. I don't like the analogy, but you ponies are like chess pieces, moving along with rules that most of us have agreed on. Anomalies like the princesses, Celestia and Luna, do happen. It's befuddled – I'm getting sidetracked here. Now, about you.

"You have had a rough past. Heck, rough is an understatement. All you want is to re-write your past, right?"

She nods dumbly. What else can she do?

"Here's the problem - I can't. Your past involves ponies that aren't mine to, er, hold, and I can't break the rules by interfering with their stories. Trust me, I want to! I regret my decisions back then, and I want..."

"You're hiding something from me, aren't you?" she asks evenly. She can hear it in the undercurrents of the tone, and struggles with an unwelcome idea – that all of this is just part of a ploy to get her into something the voice wanted. The darkness, the kindness, all of it merely an effort to manipulate her.

"I've written you to be pretty sharp, huh," says the voice. "Alright, I'll be frank - I'm selfish. I don't want to break the rules, because of repercussions, and I'm bored of all this. I want out. All I need is something to fill up the hole I'll be leaving when I do. I don't care about the rest of the Authors, but I do care about what they can do to me when they find their existance merg– the point is, well...

"How would you like to become an Author, Pinkie?"

The breeze stills, and the stream's flow slows down. She stares above, in the general direction of the voice, trying to work through it all.

"If you accept," says the voice, "you'll be able to not only re-write your past, but also guarantee your future. The best part is that you can do it and get away scot-free, since you'd be a beginner. The other Authors would sure as hell be pissed, but they can't punish you."

"There's a catch somewhere," she replies carefully. "If it's all so good and well, why not just do it?"

"Two reasons," says the voice. "One, the Rule of Free Will. It's a stupid rule in my opinion. It means that we can't simply make characters do something. We have to let them decide on their own, even though we can control pretty much everything else. Get the irony? I'd be punished if I outright made you choose this path. They're really strict about these things." The voice dims down considerably. "The second is the Rule of Balance, which is even more ridiculous than the first. Basically, in the life of every character, the net consequences must weigh each other out. There has to be good in every decision we give, and there must be bad. The good news is that since your life's been crap until now, you have the potential for a brilliant future, and you can even use this when explaining away the re-write. The bad news... is that it won't be you who's enjoying it. It'll be only your impression of yourself."

Before she can protest, the voice adds hastily, "You see, when you become an Author, you essentially become unacceptable to this world. Authors break the scale of the Rule of Balance since they can write their own choices. The potential for the abuse of power is just too much. What you can do, however, is enjoy the fact that this version of you will live a wonderful life. And since she's, well, you, surely you'd be able to share in the bliss, right?"

"I don't buy this," she says flatly. "What happens if I refuse?"

"You'll go back to the old world," sighs the voice. "I can't keep you here forever, since the others are really picky about the creation of new worlds."

She closes her eyes and sits down. Perhaps it is the reviving drink, the taste of real food, or both, but the old world seemed less gray now. She could even feel a spark of something within her that could barely pass off as hope.

"Of course, you don't know what happened to Fluttershy, do you?" continues the voice with a tinge of glee. "You remember her, don't you? The one pony that would play with you, the one pony that didn't laugh at your songs. The one pony that was actually kind to you, and the first pony you ever betrayed."

"Trying to dig up my guilt? That's pretty low," she snaps nervously.

"It works," says the voice with the tone equivalent of a shrug. "Shall I show you?"

The scene melts away once more, replaced by a slew of images that make her head spin.

_Fluttershy, returning to the barn..._

_Fluttershy, searching desperately with the family through the forest..._

_Fluttershy, enduring the cold looks everypony gives her..._

_Fluttershy, waking up one night just in time to escape the beating Father is about to give her..._

_Fluttershy, on the run, hiding in the forest, calling desperately to the animals to aid her..._

_Fluttershy, weak from an unsubstantial diet of forest grass and little variety, lying in the clearing, shivering and alone–_

"Stop. Stop, stop, stop!" she yells, shaking, falling to the ground. "This can't be true, it can't! It's a lie!"

"It's the present," whispers the voice. "Did I mention that Fluttershy is under my control, too?"

"You...? So _you _did all this?" she hisses.

"Nope," replies the voice cheerily. "_You_ did. You left a void in the family, and she took all the blame. Who else would it have fallen on but her? That Clyde is an odd one, that's for sure. So desperate at times, so bad at dealing with emotions. There's a lot more, of course. And it's all yours to undo, _if you just say yes_."

She realized, then, rather funnily, that she still had feelings left in her heart of stone. She still remembered the happy days from back then, when she first found Fluttershy, having tumbled from Cloudsdale into her life by sheer chance. She remembered her first party, and she remembered Granny. She remembered what it was to be happy, and how much she wanted to share this happiness with other ponies.

"I wanted to smile forever," she mumbles to herself. Her logic and reasoning, the part of her that had kept her alive up until now, are working in full gear, trying to sort out implications. She tosses them out before they can convince her of everything that could go wrong.

With that single syllable, she became me, and I rose above the old world, beyond the fourth wall.

* * *

><p>What are we? Even I can't tell anymore.<p>

I am me; a downtrodden, generally disliked Author, working my characters through the span of their lives. I have gone crazy from trying to grasp my new, near-infinite nature, returned to sanity when I came to grips with the convenience of ignorance, and am now going through the middle phase of my second descent into madness. I am alone (Authors are not social at all), but not necessarily lonely; even though they are no longer mine, I still have the memories of my past to give me the illusion of company, and I re-live them occasionally in Pinkie's – my – dreams. Why hers? The memories belong to the realm of Equestria, and they exist in Pinkie's mind, not my fourth-dimensional conscious. If I want to re-visit those memories, I have no choice but to delve into Pinkie's mind.

"She" is what I used to call Past Pinkie before the term became too wordy for my liking. I cannot equate myself with her, now that I am an Author, though I have a deep suspicion that the real reason is because I do not want to. Honestly, who would? I left my old life to escape the reality of being _her_. Or was it to make sure that Fluttershy found happiness? I can't remember. Forgive my rambling. Whichever the case, she is now nothing but a memory of a story re-written. I look at her to remind myself what I don't want Present Pinkie to be, maybe even to remind myself that I am no longer Past Pinkie. It is a reassurance, something nopony ever runs low on.

Pinkie, or Present Pinkie... now that's a complicated matter.

She has the most amazing attitude to life, bubbly, happy, completely obtuse to everything that could go wrong (and plenty could, thanks to the Rule of Balance). She is not wanting for friends, and values each one like precious jewels. She is living out her one true purpose in life. She is everything I ever wanted but no longer can have.

I want to be Present Pinkie. The best I can do is tell myself that I am, in a way. The problem is after a while this wears thin, and believe me when I say that that while has past a long time ago.

Present Pinkie – the only Pinkie that has the right to be Pinkie, really – has, due to our complex bond, a fraction of my powers. She can, to a very limited extent, predict the future (our plans) through physical manifestations; she manages to get the idea that we, yes, _we _are watching her, and even tried to make contact on a few occasions! That sure put the others in a hissy fit, I can tell you. She has great strength and stamina even for an Earth pony, though she has not noticed it yet.

Ah, Pinkie. I was once you, though not you at all. Your memories are mine: mine to write, mine to give, but not mine to possess, and they are all happy ones.

Have I ever told you how much I envy you? I suppose not. That would be so awkward.

I do daresay you cannot even remember Granny Pie's funeral, and that is the only sad thing about you.

* * *

><p>Few ponies remember the scene of the first large-scale party in Ponyville history, for the average brain has only so much space reserved for colour and decorations. Pinkie Pie, with her brilliant memory, could jot down every detail to the dot, if you could get her to sit down long enough.<p>

There were so many balloons in the town hall that if you tried, you could actually smell the scent of stretched latex in the air, hidden amongst the wafting aroma of the rows of fresh cake and buns on the sides. Streamers of every hue and shade line every edge, from the tables to the roof to even Mayor Mare's hat. The rise and fall of excited chatter and cheers complete the assault on all senses, and it is everything in a party that Pinkie could want. Ponies are obviously enjoying themselves, and there isn't an unsmiling face in the hall.

"So how do you like it?" asks Mayor Mare, sidling up to her.

"I... Oh, thank you thank you thank–"

"You've said that already," grins Mayor Mare, giving her an awkward pat on the head as Pinkie hugged her. "This is nothing, especially for Surprise's grandfilly."

"I can't believe you and Granny Pie knew each other!" gushes Pinkie. "Even if you did, it was really super-duper nice of you to throw this party for me, and I'm supposed to be the party pony!"

"Well, really, once you get the quantities set out, it's all about organization..." blushes Mayor Mare.

"Organization? Does it have to do with your stomach? Because I know what else does – this bubbly pop drink thing!" Pinkie squeals, disappearing and returning to her side in less than a second with an unopened bottle.

Mayor Mare blinks, and wonders whether she should step back when Pinkie opens that bottle. The pink mare bites off the cap. No explosion. She sighs in relief.

"I don't think I've told you this," says Mayor Mare, "but your grandmother–"

"She was Ponyville's party pony!" finishes Pinkie.

"How did you know?"

"She told me stories about it!"

"Ah, of course." Mayor Mare finds herself straining hard to keep her grin up, and remembers having had the same sensation when she was around Surprise, too. They somehow _pressured_ you into smiling if you stayed near them long enough. Best not to hang around too long, then. "Pinkie, I haven't introduced you to these mares, have I? They're around your age."

Mayor Mare leads her over to the punch bowl. Two ponies stand out – they are the only ones arguing in the hall, or at least, one of them is.

"Oh, Applejack, I've told you so many times that you're supposed to use the cups! Ugh! Think of all that... stuff that you're putting into the punch!" whines a white unicorn.

"Now see 'ere," replies the orange Earth pony, wiping her mouth, "Ah'm drinking, an' drinking goes in, not out. You needn't worry, nuthin's gone in. It's clean, and nopony needs to wash 'em extra cups, unlike _cert'n _ponies who don't do dishes."

"Girls!" says Mayor Mare, almost too eagerly. "I'd like you to meet Pinkie Pie. She's the newest addition to our town, and she'll be living with the Cakes until we find a more permanent place for her. Pinkie, this is Rarity, and that's Applejack."

"Hiya!" squeals Pinkie, shaking their hooves so fast that her entire body blurs for a moment. "It's so nice to meet you, we're going to be the bestest-best of friends, and we're going to have parties every day, with cake and sweets and everything!"

"Sure. Indeed," says Rarity, impressively gracious. "It's my pleasure."

"Uh, yeah," says Applejack. "What she says. Though I dunno if I can make it to all of 'em, since I've got work on th' farm."

"Farm? You live on a farm? I lived on a farm!" says Pinkie. "Hey, we could have a super-special barnhouse party, and I know just the thing that'll make the occasion – carrot-and-corn cake!"

A sudden quiet blankets the ponies, despite the continuing hoo-hah around them. Rarity makes a quick glance at Applejack, who, to her credit, manages to simply bite her lip.

"Our dear Applejack doesn't like carrots," says Rarity with a nervous giggle. She leaned forward and whispered: "It's a competitive thing, something to do with land acquisition, I don't want to bore you with the details, not today anyways..."

"Well that's okay! What does she like in her cakes, then?" asked Pinkie. "Say, your cutie mark is apples, so that must mean that you're an apple farmer!"

"Yep, that Ah am," says Applejack half a beat later, as if nothing had happened. She beams with pride. "Ah'm an Apple through and through. You were on a farm, too? What did y'all grow?" She appraises Pinkie's cutie mark. "Balloons?"

"No, silly! You're a pony! And we grew rocks! Balloons, ha!" Pinkie bursts into a fit of giggles. "How can anypony grow balloons? You're so funny! Bwahaha!" She rolls on the floor for a few more moments, and turns to the ceiling. "Hey, did you hear that? She thought that you can grow balloons!"

Her laughter dies down to a twitching smile.

"Hey, did you hear me?" she calls.

"Who're you talkin' to?" asks Applejack.

"Her, up there! Can't you see her? The pony with the really straight mane up there, see, with all the shadowy things behind her?"

_Uh-oh. _

"Why? What's wrong?" She frowns, completely unaware of the worried looks of her new friends. "Why'd you go 'uh-oh'?"

The other Authors are staring at me with glares that could not only kill, but wreck apocalypse, if not for the previously-established "eternal harmony" premise Equestria enjoys. I give them the heartiest shrug I can muster in my fourth-dimensional form.

_You're not supposed to see me... Pinkie._

"Why not?"

_It's called breaking the fourth wall, seeing, er, ponies like us. It's generally discouraged, on grounds of being impossible. You're probably – wait, no, you are the only pony that can do it._

"But that sounds so cool! Hey, where'd everypony go? What's this black stuff?"

_Suspended space. _Her grin remains, and it is unnerving. _It's to keep you away from the others while we – whoops, sorry, I deal with you. _

"Why do you want to do that? They're my new friends!"

_Pinkie, they can't see me. They think you're talking to the ceiling._

"Well that's a laugh. Why'd they think I'm doing that?" giggles Pinkie, waving a hoof.

_Because it looks very much like you are, from their perspective. _I frown. "Perspective" is not exactly her strong point; I shake my head for what it's worth. _They'll think you're silly._

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing!" Pinkie protests happily. "That's okay, though, we can just have another laugh then. And maybe more cake."

_Pinkie, doesn't it occur to you that they might not be your friends anymore, if they think you're silly?_

If I had a tongue, I would have bitten it out of regret. _Damn. I'll have to re-write that. Come on, pen, pen..._

"Oh, silly, I won't lose my friends that easily!" dismisses Pinkie.

_How can you be so sure? _I cast a meaningful glare at the closest Author, whose expression, surprisingly, reads "I'm okay with this". _You don't know what ponies are like._

"But I do! Everypony loves a party, right? Friends are ponies that you have fun times with, like Inky and Binky and Father and Mother and Fluttershy and Mayor Mare! Even if they might think that I'm silly, all I need to do is have another party, then we can have fun together and we'll be friends again!" concludes Pinkie, very pleased. As if that is not enough, she actually tries to poke me. "Isn't it obvious?"

I gulp. It isn't in me to correct her. I just cannot.

_You're right, Pinkie. It is. Looks like the one being silly was me after all. _

The suspended space collapses, and she eases back into the party. Applejack and Rarity, probably in off-screen agreement, do not mention the incident, and hence neither does Pinkie. Instead, they talk about their days on the farms, manes, dresses, food and everything else that friends talk about.

* * *

><p>Just because her dreams are mostly made of my memories, it does not mean that she cannot dream of her own once in a while.<p>

I like those dreams. They remind me what happiness is, or at least the closest I can get to it. Contrary to opinion, they happen completely of her own accord, and I am mildly surprised every time one does. That is what dynamic balance is, after all. There is no problem being on the far end of a spectrum, as long as there is a counter-motion as far off on the other side...

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Dear reader, what do you think of your past?

This is out of my comfort zone. It's (probably) depressing, in present tense, involves multiple Pinkies and plays a dangerous game with infinite timelines. It's an experience-heavy fic, and even touches on something very personal. Even so, I can say that I'm proud of this. After all, not everyone goes through such lengths to give Pinkie's fourth-wall breaking a tragic backstory, eh? Eh?

You may be surprised to find out that I find morals in stories vital, which is why this piece bugs me slightly. Hay, whether or not there even is one in this is up for discussion, though I think I can come up with a few. That's part of the fun, really, thinking about deep, philosophical, life-changing questions that a ponyfic prompts.

Just one thing that I have to mention: the Rule of Balance is complete hogwash in the real world, because it is very much possible to fall off before you can find the counter-balance. Some, myself included, have made the mistake of not noticing this.

With that, all I have left to say is: thank you for reading, and please review!


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